Page 41 of The Grumpiest Elf

I shrug, unrepentant, and he chuckles, putting his arm around me and pulling me close. “I’m really not a Grinch,” he says, his voice low, his mouth near my ear like he’s whispering a secret.

I shiver involuntarily, because his closeness like this does that to me, but manage to keep things light. “You just play one on TV?”

That makes him laugh for real, shaking his head. “Close. But no. I don’t hate Christmas. I just hate being forced toloveChristmas.”

I pinch my brows together, my lips pressed in a line, trying to figure out what exactly he means.

Before either of us can say anything more, the hostess—wearing a T-shirt that says, “Dear Santa, my brother did it”—returns to the stand and pulls out two menus. “Oh, you have perfect timing. The dinner rush finally slowed, so I actually have an open table. They’re clearing it off right now, so it’ll just be a minute.”

She makes small talk with us for a few minutes, then leads us to a table, leaving us with, “I’ll be right back with water for you.”

I look around some more, taking in all the little festive touches around the restaurant, then lean my face on my hand. “So this place doesn’t make you feel forced to love Christmas?”

He chuckles, folding his hands on top of his menu and leaning toward me. “No. It doesn’t.” He looks around too. “This place feels like someoneelseloves Christmas”—he gives me a pointed look—“or loves the money they make from pandering to all the people who do, but no one here gives a crap if I like Christmas as much as they do or not.”

Considering that for a moment, I look around again, taking in the waitstaff and their festive outfits. “What if you worked here?” I ask, because I think that’s the real issue—him being forced to work at Santa’s Workshop as an elf. I gesture at everyone I see working here. “They’re all dressed for the season, too. Would it make you as mad to do that?”

He considers that, watching everyone, then shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says at length. “It’s different.”

“How?” I ask, genuinely curious, because I can’t see much difference at all.

He shrugs, glancing around again before meeting my eyes. “They get to choose what to wear, and whether to wear Christmas stuff at all.” He nods toward the bar. “The bartender, for example, is wearing the standard black shirt he always wears. SoifI were to work here, I could wear the usual uniform if I didn’t want to wear Christmas stuff.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “So you’re fine with a uniform.”

He glances around. “Uh, yeah? I mean, that’s pretty standard workwear.”

Tilting my head to the side, I tap a finger on the table. “And why isn’t your elf costume the same as a uniform?”

His mouth opens and he sucks in a breath, but then he freezes, letting out his breath slowly. He purses his lips, his brow furrowing. “You’re right,” he says. “I know you’re right. And you’re not even the first person to tell me that. But it doesn’t feel the same as wearing, like, a company branded shirt or something, you know?”

“That’s true. I worked part time at a local coffee shop when I was in high school. We had to wear a T-shirt and an apron with the logo on them. Those still feel like normal clothes, though.”

“Exactly,” he jumps in. “As you said, it’s an elfcostume. It’s different. It’s more. It’sworse.”

I can’t help chuckling at that last one.

“And everyone just expects that you’re this cheerful elfall the time. It’s a small town, Lydia. You haven’t been here that long, so it might not be obvious to you, but everyone knows everyone here, or at least it feels that way growing up. I was the little elf boy my whole life. And it sucked.” He pauses, looking over my shoulder, his gaze abstract. “I don’t mind places like this, because here I can just pretend I’m a normal guy out with a girl I like during the holiday season.” My cheeks warm at thegirl I likepart. His eyes meet mine again. “I don’t have to play the role of the cheerful elf here. I can just be … me.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

Dylan

Holding my breath,I wait for Lydia’s response, though I don’t know why it feels so significant.

I guess because every other time I’ve complained about the elf gig, my feelings are just dismissed, brushed aside like they’re of no consequence and I have no right to them. Both my sisters act that way, and my parents act like I’m an ungrateful little shit—which I guess is understandable, but that’s not how it is. I’mnotungrateful. I appreciate how hard they’ve worked to create what our family has and the opportunities it’s given me. I do.

I just feel like I’m old enough to have some say in how involved I am.

Ty’s the only one who doesn’t brush me off and act like I’m ridiculous. Of course, he just grunts, so not exactly a well of support either.

So itmattersin a way I have trouble articulating and don’t like acknowledging, even in my own mind, that someone understands my point. And if that someone is Lydia? Even better.

I can’t keep holding my breath forever, though, because our waitress, dressed in a green shirt with a white Christmas tree on it and reindeer antlers, comes over to take our orders. Of course, we haven’t looked at the menus, and while I know what I’ll get, I don’t think Lydia’s been here before. She opens the menu and looks it over.

“Do you need another minute?” the waitress asks, already tucking her order pad into her apron.

“Yes, please,” Lydia says, sounding relieved.

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